A Place You Used to Call Home
by Nynaeve1723
Summary: After almost six years Jordan has the chance to return home. JDanny McCoy
1. Chapter 1

DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Willing to stage a coup.

A Place You Used to Call Home - Part One

Boston was five years and three thousand miles in Jordan Cavanaugh's past. That didn't stop dreams from haunting her, breaking her sleep into jagged shards, nor did it stop her from keeping an almost permanent eye over her shoulder, wondering not _if_ pursuit would come, but _when_. There were days when she would almost welcome it.

Rolling over, trying to ignore the blaring of her alarm clock, she drew a pillow over her head and cursed mildly. Failing, the irritating bleat of mechanical sound bringing on an early headache, she sat up and slammed her palm down on the off switch. She sat up and hugged her knees to her chest, trying to relax, to coax the ache behind her eyes into subsiding. Closing her eyes, she laid her head on the uneven table of her bent knees. She attempted to push away the wispy filaments of last night's dream, but the edges whispered along her memory, tickling places she'd like to forget. Last night she'd been able to see him with perfect clarity in her dream world.

Some nights she could barely recall his face, the sound of his voice, the way he touched her.

Some nights she wasn't sure if the ghost in her dreams was Pollack. Or Woody. Those were the worst.

Knowing brooding wouldn't do her any good, she grudgingly got up and threw on her running clothes. One nice thing about living in San Francisco was definitely the weather. It was rarely too hot or too cold to run at some point in the day. She could just do her usual route, come home, shower and make it to work.

XXXXX

The bar was loud, crowded and noisier than usual. Tending bar wasn't what Jordan had really intended to do with her life, but it paid the bills. And she couldn't exactly walk into a morgue somewhere and ask for a job. They'd want some credentials, which would lead to the unfortunate revelation of the fact she was a fugitive.

She grinned a thank you at one of her regulars and pocketed the tip he'd left. He must be having problems with his wife again. The tip was a twenty. Jordan shook her head as he left. He'd been trying intermittently for the last three years to get into her pants. He might have vaguely tempted her except he looked a lot like Kramer from _Seinfeld_ – and Jordan had met his wife once. The former M.E. had met her type before in her previous life and occupation – the betrayed wife who'd hacked up her husband and his girlfriend. Not worth it.

She turned, a woman at the end of the bar catching her eye. Tall, thin, blonde and holding out a bill. Jordan scooted that way and took the order. She bit back the grimace when the woman asked for an Apple Martini. She hadn't had a drink since that night. She managed a tight smile and set about mixing the cocktail. As she handed it to the woman, Jordan noticed a man moving through the crowd.

A near-electric pulse of recognition slid through her muscles. She backed into Kevin, another one of the bartenders and, apologizing, claimed she felt sick. She fled, not toward the bathroom, but toward the exit. She heard Kevin calling out to her, calling "Vicky! Vicky!" She didn't look back.

She was halfway down the block, seriously considering compromising her budget and catching a cab, if she could find one, when his voice boomed in the night, not the name to which she'd learned to answer, not "Vicky," but "Jordan." Her feet stopped all on their own, her brain screaming at them to keep running.

"Jordan!"

She stood still as a statue, her heart pounding furiously in her chest. _I'm sorry. Who?_ She willed her lips to move, willed her throat to disgorge the words, but to no avail.

His hands were on her shoulders, and he was spinning her to face him. "Oh, God! Jordan!" Then he was pulling her to him, holding her tightly and in a giant, engulfing wave, five years swamped her, capsized her. Her body shook with the sobs as Danny McCoy held on to her, stroking her back, telling her it was all okay. Somehow, she believed him, even though she knew none of it was okay.

She didn't notice when he hailed a cab, nor did it really register when he bundled her into it. Deep in her mind was the instinct to run, to fling open the door at the next red light, but that was too deep for her to reach just then. At that moment, she was exhausted in every way she could be, and it was so much easier to let him take her wherever he was taking her. When the cab let them off at the St. Francis, she followed him meekly out of the taxi, taking the proffered hand. He guided her without resistance across the lobby, into a sumptuous elevator and up to a suite.

Only when he began to tug at the t-shirt she wore did the shock begin to abate. She swatted his hands away.

"Easy," he said gently. "I just thought a hot shower might help you."

"I can manage," she replied dully.

He looked at her, his dark eyes filled with care and anxiety. "Do you want anything? Food?"

She shook her head, her stomach suddenly queasy.

"Drink?"

"I don't drink anymore."

He nodded. "Yeah. I bet."

So he did know. At least some of it. She swallowed. "I – uh – tea?"

"Sure. You want what's here in the room? If not, there's a Starbucks in the lobby. I can get you-"

She nodded. "Something herbal." Her eyes darted to the door.

He took her shoulders again. "Don't think about it, Jordan."

"What?" Her eyes were wide with fear, not innocence, and Danny McCoy knew the difference.

"Running." His brows knit down for a moment. "I'm not going to call anyone. I'm going to get you some tea. Okay?"

She bit her lip. "Promise?"

He kissed her forehead gently, the way you might to soothe a child's nightmare. "I promise." He watched as she turned and padded toward the bathroom. He heard the water start and listened for the change in the sound the spray made hitting the walls of the surround, knowing when he heard it that she was under the hot water. He left the room, his mind racing.

It took him barely ten minutes, but the water was off by the time he came back. He took a deep breath, holding back a curse, wondering if she'd slipped out on him. Instead he found her in the suite's bedroom. She'd wrapped herself in one of the lush robes the hotel provided and had lain down on the bed. She was fast asleep.

Danny left her there and spent a sleepless night on the suite's couch.

XXXXX

Danny was working on his laptop when she appeared in the doorway to the bedroom. Her face was still slack with sleep and her hair, having been slept on wet, ran in waves and corkscrews that it would take another shower to tame. Wrapped in the thick, white robe, her arms crossed over her chest, she looked young and vulnerable, but the desperation and fear from the night before had abated, at least somewhat.

Danny smiled at her, remaining where he sat, letting her decide how close she wanted to be. "Hey there. Sleep well?"

She blushed. "Uh – Yeah. Sorry."

"For what?"

She waved back toward the bedroom. "I kind of – crashed."

"It happens. You want some lunch?"

"Um – no breakfast?"

He chuckled. "Well, I'm sure room service will send up whatever you want, but it's almost two p.m."

She gasped. "I slept that long? Why did you let me?"

His smile was simple and comforting. "Figured you needed it."

She pushed herself off the doorframe and came to sit next to him. "I did. Thanks."

"So…." He looked over at her. "Lunch?"

She nodded and then shook her head. "I should – Clothes and all… my place."

Her semi-incoherence didn't faze him. "They can send something up from the shops."

"Danny, I… I need to go."

"Jordan, I'm not going to call anyone." He clasped his hands between his knees. "Unless you want me to."

She shook her head quickly.

"Okay. I just – I want to know what's been going on with you." He looked at her again. "I want to know you're okay."

"I'm fine," she assured him, her voice breathy and rushed. "Really." She turned her head to gaze out the window. From where she sat, she couldn't see anything however, so she got up and went to peer out. They were high above the city, the bay stretching out below them. The day looked to be slightly hazy and windy, if the clouds scudding by were any indication.

McCoy watched her for a few minutes. He was glad the fear seemed to have leeched out of her. He hadn't meant to alarm her as much as he had last night. He'd been shocked himself to see her, and his only thought had been to make sure she wasn't some hallucination. After she'd broken down the way she had, his next thought had been to keep her safe. She stood so still that if not for the faint sound of her breathing, he might have thought she'd turned to stone. It struck him that she didn't know. "Jordan?"

She nodded her head in acknowledgement.

"You didn't kill Pollack."

"I know that."

"I mean, the guy who did is in prison."

She turned slowly. "What?"

"I'm sorry. I thought you would have known. It just dawned on me…."

She went pale. "He…?" She swallowed convulsively several times. "They found him?"

Danny nodded slowly.

"How? Who? When?"

He wanted to go to her, to gather her up into his arms again, but the way she crossed her arms, hugging herself now, her fingers scrabbling at the elbows of the robe, told him to keep his distance. "Um… These really great guys at the Boston morgue did some amazing forensic work – found some things most people would have missed." He tried a slight smile, but found his informal tone didn't alleviate the desolation on her face. He rushed on. "The guy – He was working for some federal judge. The shooter's doing a long stretch; the judge has spent the last three years at one of the country club prisons."

"Figures." Her voice was bitter – as acerbic as the knowledge she had to process now.

"Yeah." He stood up and ran a hand through his hair, making his way to the minibar's fridge and getting himself a soda. It brought him closer to her without violating the invisible shield she had put around herself. "Um – This was all about four years ago."

Jordan nodded. "Well… that's… good."

"You know," he said between sips of ginger ale. "You could go back. To Boston."

"No, I couldn't. Even if I wanted to."

"Why not?" He ignored the last part.

"I was charged with murder."

"That D.A. – what's her name?"

"Renee Walcott." The name was flat and toneless from Jordan's lips.

"Yeah. She dropped the charges.

Jordan shrugged. "I jumped bail."

A faint color surged into Danny's cheeks. "That – That got taken care of."

"What?" Her eyes narrowed.

"It was handled, Jordan."

As the import of his words sunk in, she glanced around the room, her eyes darting to and fro, a mouse in the trap hoping for escape before the cat pounced. "You helped them look – look for me."

"At first. Nigel called me, hoped Ed had some contacts that could prove useful."

"Did he?" She sneered, fear and anger warring on her face.

"Well, Ed didn't. Neither did I it turned out." He watched her for a few moments. "Jordan, they only wanted to know you were all right."

"How'd you find me now? After all this time?" Her voice was tremulous.

"Honestly? I wasn't looking." He watched her face sag and her eyes empty of spark. "I mean, actively. I've never stopped keeping an eye out, hoping by some fluke I'd run across you. I just never thought it would really happen." He paused and gave her a lopsided grin. "Girl, when you want to go to ground, you go to ground."

She gave him a harsh chuckle, but agreed. They regarded each other silently for a moment before she turned back to the window, moving to stand so close she could touch her fingertips to the sparkling glass.

Danny could see her reflection, see the longing in her eyes and in the way she worried her bottom lip between her teeth. He watched, not saying a word, as she reached out and pressed her fingertips to the window, giving her an eerie, almost ethereal appearance – Jordan on the inside, her doppelganger on the outside. One was bound to fall and crumble, but which one?

"I can't go back to Boston, Danny."

He cocked his head to study her further, a slow smile settling on his lips. "Then come to Vegas."

"Why?" She might as well have asked her reflection as him.

He shrugged lightly. "For starters, you could grieve without having to look over your shoulder the whole time. Maybe get a little perspective on everything. No one would have to know, Jordan. I swear I wouldn't pick up a phone to Nigel unless you told me it was okay."

She turned and so did her ghostly reflection. "Are you planning on hiding me in some suite?"

"No." His brows knit down. "Why would I do that?"

"Well, you might not call someone back in Boston, but about Sam? Ed? Any number of the other Montecito employees who've met me."

Danny's face grew serious. "I'm the only one, trust me."

"What do you mean?"

"I run the Montecito now. Have ever since Ed died."

Jordan gasped. "When?"

"About the time you were being framed for murder. He was shot."

"Danny, I'm sorry…. I liked Ed."

McCoy gave her a nostalgic smile. "He had his rough edges, but he was a great guy to work for. Anyway, the last few years have really changed things. Trust me. Come to Vegas. Give yourself time to – to heal. See where you want to go from there."

Her protests fading, she made some vague mention of her belongings, her lease, her job…. Danny kept his own counsel, letting the weaker and weaker excuses make up Jordan's mind. Finally she capitulated with a smile that told him she'd known his plan all along and deep down had shared it.

Five hours later they were on one of the Montecito's jets back to Vegas.

XXXXX

For eight months, Jordan shared Danny's penthouse suite. At first, they'd stay up in the open, massive living area with it wide windows giving them panoramic views of the city and talk. Five years had muted her grief, but without anyone with whom to share it, that grief had become perversely necessary to her. Also perversely necessary to her had become her scorn and bitterness toward the Boston Police, especially Woody, whom she thought had abandoned her – again. As hard as she'd worked not to be found, part of her ached that they hadn't managed it, that perhaps she had never mattered to them as much as she'd allowed herself to believe.

Danny's quiet assurances and stacks of copied e-mails, reports and even newspaper clippings helped her to see how wrong she'd been. McCoy took it slowly, giving her the information in increments, trying to get her to grieve for all that had been lost, but not all at once. No one, not even Jordan, could have coped with that. He hoped that once the wounds that had gaped open and festered for five years had scabbed over and left their inevitable scars that she would be able to move on, to make the decision that would be best for her.

She'd been there about eight months when he handed her one of the last news clippings. He studied her intently as she read it. Once. Twice. Three times. Her eyes finally met his and he watched her swallow past the obvious lump in her throat. He feared for a moment that it had been too soon – or too late. "Why?" She choked out at last.

He gave her a small, knowing smile and shook his head. "You don't know?"

She shook her head rapidly.

He took her hand and rubbed her fingers softly. "They all love you. Each of them in their own way. What Pollack started, they finished."

"What if –What if no one had ever found me?"

"I don't think that mattered, Jordan. I think it was something – the only thing at that point – that they could do. I think by doing that, they could keep up the hope that some day you'd make it back."

Her gaze drifted back toward the article. "Decades-old murder solved after new evidence brought to light." Pollack's notes had contained references and hypotheses here and there that Emily Cavanaugh's murder had been connected to the judge he was investigating. He'd been right. With a new place from which to launch an investigation, the morgue staff had done just that, with Woody feeding them whatever they needed, heedless of the possibility of sacrificing his own career. Almost five years earlier, when Jordan was pouring watered-down gin into spotty high ball glasses, letting drunks ogle her and fending off the more than occasional advance of a patron who'd had one too many – about five drinks ago - her friends and one-time lover had been untangling the web which had ensnared her throughout her life. They had been finding answers for a woman they might never see again.

She cried quietly for a long time, Danny's arms holding her tightly. These were not the hysterical tears of that first night in San Francisco; they were soft, laden with grief and the weighty realization that all the things you've ever hoped for were gone – and yet if you did things just right, you could perhaps find them again. As her weeping tapered off and her breathing steadied, she fell asleep in his protective embrace. He managed to free one hand to order the Montecito jet to be ready to fly to Boston the next evening.

The time had come.

END Part One


	2. Chapter 2

DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Willing to stage a coup.

THANK YOU to those who reviewed! Glad to know you are enjoying it.

A Place You Used to Call Home - Part Two

After their red-eye flight to Massachusetts, they checked into a suite at one of Boston's loveliest hotels, Jordan puttering around, hanging up clothes in the closet, laying out toiletry items in the bathroom until Danny finally steered her toward the big windows and held her shoulders, keeping her close to him, as he made her gaze out on the city she hadn't seen for so long. Even in the grey of a bitter winter day, the city made Jordan's heart beat faster.

Or maybe that was just the reality of being back.

McCoy took it slowly with her, not prodding her about leaving the suite or contacting anyone, letting her lounge around, take a nap, whatever she wanted. This was going to be her show and he could go at her pace. She surprised him when she chose her first location to visit. Gamely, he went with her however, sitting and waiting as she did what she needed to do.

Jordan closed the door to the small booth behind her and bowed her head. Quietly, she murmured, "Forgive me, Father, I have sinned. It's been… a long time since my last confession." She watched through lowered eyes as the priest seated in the other half of the confessional recognized her voice.

The panel separating them slid back. "Jordan?"

"Hi, Paul," she said with a shy smile.

"My… You're… When did you get back?"

She chuckled softly. "This morning."

"They must be thrilled – your friends at the morgue, I mean."

"I haven't seen them yet. They don't know I'm here."

He raised a brow. "You came here first?"

She nodded. "Seemed like a good place to start."

His smile was warm and genuine. "I'm glad." Then he fixed her with a mock stern look. "And how long _has_ it been since your last confession?"

Her eye roll was greeted with a low laugh of his own. "Come meet Danny McCoy," she said.

"But, my child," he coaxed, his eyes brimming with laughter, "your confession?"

Jordan snorted. "Right. Like I'd tell _you_ anything."

As Jordan introduced them, Paul studied the man from Las Vegas, trying to guess what his relationship with Jordan was. Danny McCoy was clearly protective of her and the gleam in his eye bespoke something deeper than friendship. His relaxed posture indicated patience and an understanding of who Jordan was, as well as an easy confidence in himself that Paul had found lacking in Jordan's other suitors – those he'd met, at least.

Paul asked a few questions and got vague answers. He hadn't expected much more. Jordan had always kept herself to herself when it came to emotions, and five years of hiding had only served to hone that instinct in her. She couldn't even tell him that she was staying in Boston for certain. She did promise not to slip out of his life again as she had so often in the past twenty years.

"Oh," he said with a start as Jordan and Danny prepared to depart. "I have something for you. Give me a minute… to go get it?"

She nodded.

While they waited, Danny rested against a pew and regarded her. "He didn't exactly know what to make of – of us."

She smiled and slid into his arms. "I'm not sure _I_ know what to make of us."

He tipped up her chin with one long finger. "I know what _I'd_ like to make of us," he purred, leaning down to kiss her softly. The nights of talking had inevitably led to a physical intimacy, one that Jordan had denied herself for five years. Really more one she hadn't craved in that long. Danny had reawakened things in her long dormant. He was perceptive enough to see that and smart enough not to rush her into anything just because of it. It didn't mean he couldn't tease a little and drop hints from time to time.

Behind them, Paul cleared his throat. "Normally, people only do that in here under very certain circumstances," he teased.

"Fine by me," Danny shot back, his smile the equal of Paul's.

Jordan swatted his shoulder, and he knew he'd better not dare any further in his gentle teasing.

Paul advanced and held out something to Jordan. She gasped softly and looked up at him, her eyes filling with tears. "How did you…?" Her fingers trembled as she took her mother's locket from him.

"Your friend – uh – Nigel. He – He found it in your desk and thought it would be safest here."

She nodded. She'd taken it off before leaving for the rehearsal dinner, wearing instead a necklace Lily had given her. In the chaos following Pollack's murder, she'd never thought to put it back on, only realizing she'd left it behind when it was far too late to go back for it.

Her fingers were shaking too much to handle the clasp. Wordlessly, Danny took it from her and slipped the fine chain around her neck, letting the tiny clasp click into place. He let go and the cool gold nestled into the hollow of her throat. Paul watched the moment with a knowing eye. He wondered if McCoy would fight for her. Boston had always been home for Jordan – the place she ran from, but the place she always returned to in the end.

Then again, the priest thought, she was always searching for something. He didn't feel that from her anymore. "It suits you, Jordan." _And I don't mean just the locket._

She smiled softly, her fingers flying up to brush the front delicately. "Thanks."

Paul watched her for another moment. "I don't suppose you know that Max came back."

Her eyes widened.

The priest smiled. "Maybe he's your next stop?"

She didn't answer, just hugged him tightly for a long moment. McCoy then shook his hand. Paul watched them go, bundling up before heading back into the raw weather. He noted the way McCoy's hand slipped easily into the small of Jordan's back, the way Jordan relaxed into the small gesture, the way she allowed him to open the outer door. He found himself approving greatly of Danny McCoy.

XXXXX

Max Cavanaugh looked up from the paper he was reading. Damn Sox were about to head into spring training with most of the outfield a mess and a depleted pitching staff. The knock on the front door was a welcome distraction, even if it probably was just that nice Lily Lebowksi – no, whatever her last name was now. Max snorted; he couldn't pronounce it if he tried, so he mostly thought of her as 'that nice Lily from the Morgue.' She tended to check up on him a couple times a month. Nigel took another shift and Woody still another. They thought he hadn't noticed. Right.

He was harrumphing to himself when he opened the door. The sight he'd imagined so many times, dreamt about even, pushed him backward a few steps when it actually confronted him on the doorstep. Good Lord. She was so beautiful, even with her hesitant smile and clouded eyes. For a moment he was certain he'd fallen asleep over the paper again and then she spoke. "Dad?" Just that, something simple, her voice low, almost childlike in uncertainty and that was all it took. He wrapped her in a bear hug and forgot how beautiful she was, ignored the man with her, just held her as if he might never let go. In that moment she was his child again, the vulnerable, trusting child who'd always been Daddy's little girl. He whispered her name over and over.

Only when the winter chill tightened its grip on all of them did Max let go, ushering her and her companion inside without a word. Jordan stood in the front hall, shifting from foot to foot, unsure of her welcome here, despite Max's embrace. He looked at her, taking her in from head to toe. The lines around her eyes were more pronounced as were those around her mouth, but she looked happy enough for the most part, happier than he'd expected at any rate. For the first time, he took note of the tall man with her and instantly decided that he must have something to do with the sense of security humming in Jordan, despite her anxiety at being back in her father's house. He gave his daughter an expectant look.

Clearing her throat, she introduced the two men.

Max shook Danny's hand. "From Las Vegas? You helped look for Jordan?"

Danny nodded.

"Found her, huh?"

"Sort of," McCoy answered.

"He – uh – ran into me, you might say," Jordan added.

"When?"

Jordan sighed inwardly. Her father was happy to see her, no doubt about that, but he wasn't going to let either of them off the hook so easily as all that. "About eight months ago."

"Eight months!"

"Jordan needed time, sir," Danny leapt in.

Max respected him for that. He made a noncommittal noise. "Suppose you gave her that time, huh?"

"Danny's been – been there." She looked down for a moment, then her spine straightened and she looked back up at her father. "I had a lot to deal with. He didn't rush me."

"I guess not." Max surveyed the pair of them again. "When did you get back to Boston?" She told him, confessing that she'd been to see Father Paul first. To that Max only nodded. "And how long are you staying?"

"I don't know."

Danny glanced from father to daughter. The strain was evident in Jordan's ramrod posture and the fluttering of the tiny muscles in her jaw. He knew from their long conversations that her relationship with Max had been fraught with as many complexities as his own with his father had been. He also knew Jordan well enough that, for her, sometimes a good argument could clear the air. He suspected she came by that trait quite honestly. "Um – Jordan… do you mind if I make some calls? Business and all."

She flashed him a grateful look and pointed toward the kitchen, where he could have some privacy.

Shaking his head at the useless subterfuge, Max lead Jordan to the front room. "He – what? – works for a casino?"

"He runs the Montecito," she answered with an absent, automatic tone.

"And you've been there – with him – for … eight months?"

She nodded.

"You couldn't have called? Once? It's been damn near six years, Jordan."

Her heart soared and broke over the familiar, drawn out vowels of her name from his tongue. _Jah-don_. How she'd missed that! She felt hot tears scald her cheeks, overflowing the tender boundaries of her eyes. Whatever argument Max was looking for was shoved aside as he drew into his embrace again.

He stroked her hair, thinking how it was still so soft and silky, just as it had been when she'd been a child. He crooned her name softly, a mantra to be repeated, and told her it was all right.

At last, she sniffled and pulled back. "I'm sorry, Dad. I really am."

He palmed a few strands of hair away from her damp face and then shook his head. "No, it's all right." He smiled a little. "Well, maybe not _all right_ exactly, but I understand."

She thanked him and they sat down, close, on the couch. Max kept an arm around her and she laid her head on his strong, warm shoulder.

"You feel like telling your old man where you've been?" He kept his tone light.

She chuckled. "Using a skill you helped me acquire."

"Dear God! I hope it was legal." His eyes twinkled.

"Tending bar. San Francisco." They were silent for a while. "How long had you known?"

"About the judge?" If she was surprised that he could answer her question with no more detail, she shouldn't have been. Between them "it" had always been the big question. "Since about the time James died."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Her voice held no accusation. She simply wanted to process the information.

"They would have killed you."

"Me? Why? And who?"

He gazed down at her, his heart tight with love for her, his only child, the person he loved more than anyone in the world – had since the moment he had first held her as a screaming, protesting infant. "The judge, Eddie Cahill… a few others."

"Who?" His pause had made her suspicious.

"Malden."

"Dad."

"Pete."

She gaped. "Uncle Pete? Why?"

"Why do people kill, Jordan?"

A deep sigh fell from her lips. "Money. Jealousy. Anger. Cover something up."

"Well, your mother was killed for all those reasons. And to keep me in line all those years."

She closed her eyes. "You always knew."

He shook his head. "No. I had my suspicions. I didn't know about Pete until – until the thing with Cahill. I thought – I thought after that… maybe I could tell you."

"The judge?"

"Him." He rubbed her shoulder. "I am sorry, Jordan. All those years."

She opened her eyes and looked up at him. They didn't need words.

"So, tell me about Danny McCoy."

She grinned. "He's – He's… different."

"He loves you."

Now she looked away.

Max put a finger under her chin and turned her head back toward him. "Do you love him?"

For a long moment, she was silent. "I'm not sure. I – I care about him. I like having him in my life; I like being part of his life."

"But…?" Max raised a knowing brow.

His daughter shrugged. "You know me."

"You're right. I do." His eyes sparkled with a deep love and an abiding concern. "And I know as much as you like to pretend you don't need anyone, you do."

"I know."

"You do?"

She smiled and gave a harsh chuckle. "Believe me, five years… away taught me that."

"So what's holding you back?"

She bit her lip and met her father's appraising look with a surprisingly uncompromising one of her own. "I need to figure out if I need _him_. He deserves more than to be some substitute in my life."

"He found you – what - eight months ago?"

She nodded.

"That isn't enough time?"

"Dad," she drew the word out, chiding him. "It's just not that easy."

He gave her a grimace. "All right. You never could do things the easy way."

She glared at him with the slightly antagonistic affection they had always shared. "You know, this time, writing off everything and everyone in Boston and making a life with Danny _would_ be the easiest thing. But it would never work. I have a few… problems here that I need to face before I figure out where I go from here."

Max smiled softly. "God, you really have grown up."

XXXXX

By the time their visit with Max ended, it was past dinner time, a fact for which Jordan was grateful. She needed some time to decompress, to sort through her troubled and troubling feelings before facing her morgue family. She made her father promise not to call anyone from the morgue, told him that she'd go in the morning. Despite a heartfelt invitation, Max declined having dinner with his prodigal child and her… and Danny. He, too, found himself foundering in a sea of difficult emotions. He pledged to meet them tomorrow for a meal.

Danny took her back to the hotel and they ordered room service, eating in an easy silence. He gave her time to think, to feel, to deal with the shock – happy shock though it was – of seeing her old friend and her father.

After dinner she sat on the couch and stared into space, music playing softly in the room. Danny worked on some figures and reports for the casino, surreptitiously studying her from the corner of his eye every so often. The only movement that gave away her emotional state was so tiny as to be almost unnoticeable as she picked relentlessly at a hang nail on her left thumb. Her first words in nearly two hours surprised him. "I can be a medical examiner again." There was wonder and awe in her voice. "If I want to be."

He could only nod.

She sighed. "It's kind of late. I should – um – get some sleep."

"I'll be there in a bit," he told her.

She nodded and went through the doorway into the suite's bedroom. He heard her padding around, taking out pajamas from her suitcase, going into the bathroom where he knew she was brushing her hair, washing her face, cleaning her teeth. The little things still fascinated him. He took a deep breath and willed away the fear that after tomorrow – or next week, or even next month - he might only experience those little things in memory. The suspended animation she'd been living would end, one way or the other.

END Part Two


	3. Chapter 3

DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Willing to stage a coup.

THANKS to all those reading and/or reviewing. I'm sorry this chapter is so short, but the breaking point for it just worked for me.

A Place You Used to Call Home - Part Three

A cup of coffee in one hand, Danny fingers twined in her other, Jordan made her way toward Garret's office. It was still early, but she'd seen his car parked in the space reserved for the Chief M.E. Without knocking she opened his door and stepped into the room.

He didn't look up. "I'm sorry. The public isn't allowed in…." He looked up at last.

Déjà vu washed over her – she was more than ten years younger, her "take me back, you need me" speech rehearsed, and yet she wasn't. That Jordan had been burned in alive in the crucible of time, refining her into the one that stood there now – still independent and passionate, still stubborn and a bit exasperating, but also stronger and more confident in her own identity, softer, the edges smoothed out but the texture intact.

For a moment, Garret only stared at her, wondering if he should have his eyesight checked. Finally, he let out a great breath.

"Hey," she said.

"Hey, yourself." He shook his head. "God, Jordan. I didn't think – We all figured… God."

She tried a brave smile and almost got it right. "I'm like a bad penny. I keep turning up."

At last, he stood up. Even as he motioned to her to come to him, he was moving toward her, sweeping her up in a hug. "I missed you," he murmured in her ear.

Her eyes welled with moisture. "I missed you, too."

He stepped back and regarded her. "You look good."

"Thanks." She glanced over her shoulder. Danny was resting his lanky frame on the doorjamb, watching the two of them, his face an impervious mask. "You remember Danny McCoy?"

Garret smiled and released Jordan, so he could shake the younger man's hand. "I guess you never gave up finding her, huh?"

McCoy smiled lazily. "Did you?"

The M.E. looked over his shoulder at Jordan. "No. Not really." He turned back to the woman. "I take it you know everything."

She nodded. "Danny – Danny told me. Showed me." She took a deep breath. "He – uh – ran into me about eight months ago. I needed some time though. Time to-"

"It's okay, Jordan. You don't have to explain."

"I don't?"

Macy shook his head.

She needed to make it clear though. "It's just that, for you – all of you – life went on. For me… for me every day might as well have been the day after Pollack died – the day I ran."

"I know. I mean, I can see that." For a moment they simply watched each other, assessing, wondering. Garret smiled, ready to tease her a bit. "Here to ask for your job back?"

Her smile faltered. "I don't know. I'm not sure – sure what I'm doing."

He pulled her back to him for another hug. "Take your time, Jordan." Then he pulled away enough to look down into her face. "Just know that you're welcome here."

She thanked him.

He got a gleam in his eye. "In the meantime, you mind if I pick your brain?"

She shook her head quickly.

XXXXX

Fifteen minutes later, Jordan found herself in Autopsy One with her former boss. She was gowned, her hair pulled back, her face half hidden by a mask, her hands gloved. She was peering at a small spot to which Garret pointed. The spot, on the dead man's liver, was so small as to be easily overlooked, except that the man had died under such strange circumstances that Garret had examined every organ, all the tissue, as minutely as he could. They were both too intent to hear the voices approaching.

"Gee, Dr. M is getting busy early today," came Nigel's voice.

"Weird," came Lily's. "I thought I saw someone sitting in his office."

"Next of kin maybe?" Bug.

Only when the three entered the autopsy room, did Garret look up. Jordan was even more intent and still took no notice of what happened around her. "Hey, Garret, have you ever heard-?"

The sound of a body hitting the floor stopped her.

"That nice Lily from the morgue," as Max thought of her, had fainted clean away.

END Part Three


	4. Chapter 4

DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Willing to stage a coup.

THANK you again for reading and reviewing (or just reading). This is another short one and I apologize. Chapter break point was good here, too, for me. There's only one more to go though!

A Place You Used to Call Home - Part Four

"You know, luv, of all the scenarios in my mind of you coming back here, this one never occurred to me." Nigel handed Jordan a cup of coffee – her third of the day already. The Brit also handed a mug to Danny McCoy. "Autopsying a body with Dr. M like it was – like before."

Jordan sipped the bitter brew. "Sorry."

"No need, luv." His brown eyes shone with a warmth she had believed would have been ash by now. "You're here. That's what counts."

"Are you staying?" Lily asked from the doorway.

Jordan turned and gazed at her friend. "How's your head?" Her face crinkled into a canvas of concern.

"Fine. You didn't answer my question."

Jordan's heart twisted in her chest. Somehow time had blurred her memories. In her mind, Lily was the sweet one, the endlessly compassionate woman who rarely raised her voice. She'd allowed herself to forget the fierceness of which Lily was capable, a ferocity she reserved for those she loved or felt the need to champion, but a definite ferocity nonetheless. "I don't know," Jordan answered at last.

"Well, why don't you come back when you know?"

"Hey," Danny interjected, moving closer to Jordan, letting his presence buoy her. "Do you think this is easy? She doesn't have to be here. You all could have spent the rest of your lives never knowing, wondering… worrying." His last word pierced Lily to the core.

She put a hand to her mouth to stifle the sob rising from her throat. "Oh, God, Jordan. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it."

They were hugging each other then, apologizing over and over, assuring each other it was all right, fine, not a problem.

Lily stood back and dried her tears. "I – We did worry. A lot. But – But it can't be anything like – like what it was for you."

"Did you know about – about everything here?" This from Bug.

Jordan shook her head. "Not until – Not until Danny ran into me." She looked around at them. "Thank you. All of you. I know what you did."

Nigel broke the high octane tension zinging throughout the room. "What're friends for?" He grinned.

XXXXX

For the next few days Jordan played tourist in her hometown. She showed Danny all the sights, took him to the places she'd loved. They spent time with her father and with her friends from the morgue. She wondered, their fourth morning in the city, if Danny had planned the call that told him he was needed back at the Montecito. Urgent business.

She began to pack her suitcase until he took hold of her hands. "Don't."

Her eyes clouded. "What?"

"Stay a while. Here. Boston."

"You don't want me to come back with you."

He grinned helplessly at her and pulled her to him. She blushed at the obvious contradiction his body made to her flat statement. "What do you think?"

She flicked up her eyebrows in response.

He kissed her forehead. "I just – You were away a long time. I want you to have more than a few days."

"You want me to choose."

His dark eyes studied her, his still-boyish face serious. "I want you to make the choice that is best for you. For. You." He let his mouth edge up into a smile. "You know what I'd like you to choose. But, Jordan, I – I don't want it to be what you think you _should_ do, what you think you owe someone, or even what might seem to be the easiest thing."

She stood on tiptoe and whispered in his ear, "Thank you."

XXXXX

It snowed the day she went to the cemetery. She started at Emily's grave, laying a small bouquet of winter flowers against the headstone. She stood over the stone and gazed down at it. For so long the confusion, anguish and resentment her mother had bequeathed her had been what had fueled Jordan. So much of her life, so many of her choices, had pivoted on the fulcrum of that one moment. Conscious and subconscious decisions had been made based on snatches of memory and the impressions of a child. Jordan brushed away the tears welling in her eyes. "I think I finally figured out how to live my own life, Mom" was all she said at last.

Walking slowly, enjoying the soft drift of the large, white flakes, she made her way to where they'd buried Pollack. When she found the grave, she knelt, despite the snow. She let her fingers trace the chiseled markings on the stone. His name. His dates. She choked back a tremulous cry at the inscription. _Let justice be done, though the heavens fall._ "I'm sorry it wasn't me… who found them, Pollack." She bit her lip. "And I'm sorry for everything else." She gave a soft laugh. "Well, not everything. I was lucky you came into my life. I wish I'd seen that sooner."

She stood up and took one last look at the grave.

It was snowing more steadily as she made her way back to the parking lot. Her steps slowed when she saw a tall figure – a male figure – leaning against her rental car. Squaring her shoulders and reminding herself that _he_ was part – a big part – of the reason she was here, Jordan forced her feet onward.

He watched her approach, his face blank, only his eyes alight. Those blue irises burned with unanswered questions, unspoken accusations and haunted love. When she was close enough, he spoke. "Were you even going to call me?"

END Part Four


	5. Chapter 5

DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Willing to stage a coup.

THANKS for reading! This is the final part.

A Place You Used to Call Home - Part Five

For a moment Jordan stared at him, her eyes glossy with new tears, her mouth a straight line. Finally, she dipped her head for a brief heartbeat and then looked back up to take in his deep blue eyes, as dark as she'd ever seen them, swimming in emotions she no longer thought she could stir in Woody Hoyt. "I – uh – I… I… yeah."

He straightened against her car. "Really? So… what? It slipped your mind before now? Or did you think I'd enjoy hearing it from Nigel?"

She shook her head, the tears now beginning to fall down her icy cheeks. "I'm sorry," she murmured. "I've had a lot-"

"You think I haven't? All of here didn't… have a lot? God, Jordan! You've been gone almost six years and do you know how many nights of _unbroken_ sleep I've had? How many nights I _didn't_ dream about you? Do you know there hasn't been a single hour of a single day when I haven't thought of you? Did any of us – did I – ever even cross your mind?"

Her eyes flashed in warning. "Yes! Of course. All the time." She stiffened, standing straighter. "Wait a damn minute! Why are you mad at me? _Your_ girlfriend is the one who tried to pin a murder on me that I didn't commit!"

"_Ex_-girlfriend, Jordan. Ex. Like my job was almost my ex-job, too. I did everything I could for you. We all did. And how did you thank us? How did you repay that trust in us? By running to Danny McCoy!"

She gaped, her jaw unhinged. With an effort, she closed it, her teeth clacking audibly. "Is that what you think? Is that what Nigel told you?"

He hesitated. "Not exactly. He said you'd been with Danny McCoy though."

"So you automatically assumed I'd run off to Vegas and – and what?" She snorted in disgust. "You want to know where I was most of the time? I was living out of a car, staying in places a day or two, doing whatever I could to get some cash. I finally ended up in San Francisco with this crappy little apartment and a job tending bar at a downtown meat market. I spent every day of my life looking over my shoulder, wondering if that would be the day someone finally found me, the day I finally got caught for something. I. Didn't. Do!"

Woody opened and closed his mouth several times. He'd stopped at the morgue for a report he needed, heard Nigel on the phone, talking to Max – about Jordan. From there, he'd learned she'd come back in the company of Danny McCoy. He'd demanded Nigel tell him where Jordan was, and when the Brit had said he thought she was visiting the cemetery, he'd hauled ass out of

there to come find her. He ran a hand through his untidy hair. "I'm sorry. I – I didn't… I shouldn't have said all that."

"No. You shouldn't have." Her voice was flat and as cold as the snow settling on the ground. "Thank you."

His brown knit down in confusion and consternation. "For what?"

"For everything you did… while I was… gone. For me. With my mom's… case. Dan- I just found out, a couple days ago, about all of it. That part of it, I mean." She tucked a lock of stray hair behind her ear. "So, thank you."

He nodded slowly. "That's it?"

"What more do you want, Woody?" Her voice was surprisingly level despite her roiling emotions. "I know you put your ass on the line to clear me, too, and I'm grateful for that."

"How about 'I missed you, Woody,' or 'I thought about calling.' Something like that?"

She stared at him, the winter chill beginning to seep through her coat. "Do you really think I just walked away from everything – everyone – here and never thought about any of it, any of you? Of course, I missed you. Of course, I thought about calling. There were times I wanted to pick up the phone and just tell you to come get me, that I didn't care anymore, that I just wanted to be home – even if home was a BPD jail cell – that I wanted to quit looking over my shoulder." Her breathing hitched and she bit back the tears. "I wanted to see familiar faces – faces of the people I… love… loved."

"You didn't trust me? Is that it?"

Her shoulder slumped. "God, Woody! I trusted you! I distinctly recall standing in my office pleading with you to help clear me. I just – I couldn't do it anymore… couldn't keep wrecking your life – all of your lives here – with mine. I wasn't even sure about coming back here now."

"Now?"

She shivered. "Oh, for God's sake, it's freezing out here! Can we do this somewhere warmer? Get some coffee?"

He looked down for a minute.

"I'm not trying to run away, Woody. I'm seriously freezing my ass off out here! I'm enjoying the snow and all – it's been six years – but I'm not going to enjoy it much longer if I get pneumonia!"

He agreed and asked where she was staying. He raised his eyebrows and whistled when she told him. "And _they_ have a coffee shop?"

She shook her hand in the universal noncommittal gesture. "More like a mock, Parisian sidewalk café, but yes." At least it lightened the mood for a moment.

XXXXX

Forty-five minutes later they sat in the corner of the mock sidewalk café, sipping lattes and nibbling on the sandwiches Woody had ordered when he realized Jordan hadn't had lunch. As she warmed up from the outside, she felt her emotions thaw as well. He was entitled to a measure of his anger, after all, and she could imagine how she would have felt had the situation been reversed.

He broke the awkward silence by asking where she'd been. She gave him the abbreviated version, having told it so many times over the past week or so that she wished she'd had cards made up to hand out. Awkward silence was soon replaced with burning anger.

"You've known for eight months? Vegas Boy found you _eight_ months ago?"

She sighed and repeated her mantra of having needed time to absorb everything she'd learned.

"I'm surprised you bothered, Jordan," he spat back. "You could have sent a postcard from sunny Las Vegas. _I'm fine. Vegas Boy is fine. Vegas is fine. Don't wish you were here. Don't call me, I'll call you. Maybe."_

"That's not fair," she scolded.

"And you staying away all this time was?"

She set her jaw for a moment. "All right, Woody. You want to score points off me? You want to let it all out? Go ahead. I deserve at least some of it and if it makes you feel better…." She ended with a shrug.

He stared stonily at her, silent, fuming.

"Go on, Detective Hoyt. Let me have it. Tell me everything I did wrong. Remind me how many times you put everything on the line for me and how many times I screwed up your life. Give me all the details of how you helped catch the man who killed my ex-lover. Don't leave out the fact that he was my _ex_ because I'd left him for you. And be certain you include how you didn't want to be my rebound guy and you chose instead to get involved with one of your colleagues, the one who was content to go along with the frame the real killers had designed for me!"

"Jordan…."

"Jesus, Woody. You don't think maybe I needed – deserved – some time to try to sort everything out?"

"You could have called. Not me. Fine. Someone."

She shook her head, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment. "And what? Who would have been on the next flight? You? Nigel? Lily? My _dad_? Or how many phone calls would there have been? Asking when I'd come back or when someone could go out there?"

"We would have respected what you wanted, Jordan."

"Really?" She wiped away a tear. "God… I love all of you here. You were more my family than my own dysfunctional mess, and I know you all would have promised." She took a steadying breath. "Right until the point someone wondered aloud if I was_ really_ okay or if maybe I didn't know what was best for me. Again."

He swallowed hard.

"I needed time to heal. I needed space to do that." Her voice dropped. "Danny gave me all that."

"I'll bet," came Woody's derogatory sarcasm.

She glared at him. "Think whatever you want," she told him, suddenly weary. "You always did anyway."

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

Pain knifed through her, along with a loss and desolation she wasn't expecting. He'd known, always, that she was complicated; he'd thought knowing it had been enough. She wiped away the tears brimming in her eyes. "I'm sorry," she murmured. "This – I can't do this anymore."

She pushed back her chair and fled the small café setting.

XXXXX

She gazed over the skyline from her once-familiar perch on the morgue rooftop. The skyline was much the same. The setting sun painted the sky beautiful, soothing colors and had etched them in her memory. The distant traffic sounds, so muted up here, played in her head like a well-known song, perhaps a lullaby even. It hadn't changed all that much, but she had.

Her roots were here; they always would be. She had finally learned to make peace with the past, to forgive the sins committed by others. And to forgive herself for being a child unable to wring from the perpetrators justice for her mother, for being a daughter who loved perhaps too well, though not always wisely, for being a woman, passionate and devoted to her job even when it created problems for others. Most of all she forgave herself for having fallen out of love with the one man she'd once thought was irreplaceable in her world.

The slate was as clean as it would get. It would forever carry the palimpsest of everything wrought in her life before Pollack's murder, but that she could live with. She could live with the memories of the awful times and the great ones, with the tears and the smiles, even with the moments of confusion and of clarity.

She once thought her life had ended that morning when she woke up with a corpse, but now she knew that it had just gone on hiatus until she could figure out in what direction she was meant to travel. And for the first time in her life, she knew what baggage to carry forward with her and which to leave behind. She could not change the past and the past could not be the future.

She opened her cell phone and speed dialed. He greeted her with easy warmth. She smiled. "You know those big metal rooms that shoot across the sky?"

He laughed a bit. "Yeah. Yeah, I do."

"Well, the one I'm shooting across the sky in should arrive in Las Vegas in about eight hours."

"I'll meet you at your gate."

"Thanks," she purred. "And Danny?"

"Hmm?"

"I've missed you." She paused a beat. "I've missed _me_ with you."

"Me, too," he assured her.

She closed her phone and shouldered her carry-on bag. Garret was waiting to take her to Logan. Her goodbyes had all been said.

All except one. And she had finally figured out that she'd said _that_ goodbye long ago standing in a precinct hallway.

_I've grown up a lot this year._

_And I haven't?_

Some things need no words.

END


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